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Complete Works. Walt WhitmanЧитать онлайн книгу.

Complete Works - Walt Whitman


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I part aside.

      There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you,

       There is no virtue, no beauty in man or woman, but as good is in you,

       No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you,

       No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you.

      As for me, I give nothing to any one except I give the like carefully

       to you,

       I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing

       the songs of the glory of you.

      Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard!

       These shows of the East and West are tame compared to you,

       These immense meadows, these interminable rivers, you are immense

       and interminable as they,

       These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent

       dissolution, you are he or she who is master or mistress over them,

       Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain,

       passion, dissolution.

      The hopples fall from your ankles, you find an unfailing sufficiency,

       Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest,

       whatever you are promulges itself,

       Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing

       is scanted,

       Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are

       picks its way.

       Table of Contents

      A great year and place

       A harsh discordant natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mother’s

       heart closer than any yet.

      I walk’d the shores of my Eastern sea,

       Heard over the waves the little voice,

       Saw the divine infant where she woke mournfully wailing, amid the

       roar of cannon, curses, shouts, crash of falling buildings,

       Was not so sick from the blood in the gutters running, nor from the single

       corpses, nor those in heaps, nor those borne away in the tumbrils,

       Was not so desperate at the battues of death — was not so shock’d at

       the repeated fusillades of the guns.

      Pale, silent, stern, what could I say to that long-accrued retribution?

       Could I wish humanity different?

       Could I wish the people made of wood and stone?

       Or that there be no justice in destiny or time?

      O Liberty! O mate for me!

       Here too the blaze, the grape-shot and the axe, in reserve, to fetch

       them out in case of need,

       Here too, though long represt, can never be destroy’d,

       Here too could rise at last murdering and ecstatic,

       Here too demanding full arrears of vengeance.

      Hence I sign this salute over the sea,

       And I do not deny that terrible red birth and baptism,

       But remember the little voice that I heard wailing, and wait with

       perfect trust, no matter how long,

       And from to-day sad and cogent I maintain the bequeath’d cause, as

       for all lands,

       And I send these words to Paris with my love,

       And I guess some chansonniers there will understand them,

       For I guess there is latent music yet in France, floods of it,

       O I hear already the bustle of instruments, they will soon be

       drowning all that would interrupt them,

       O I think the east wind brings a triumphal and free march,

       It reaches hither, it swells me to Joyful madness,

       I will run transpose it in words, to justify

       I will yet sing a song for you ma femme.

       Table of Contents

      Myself and mine gymnastic ever,

       To stand the cold or heat, to take good aim with a gun, to sail a

       boat, to manage horses, to beget superb children,

       To speak readily and clearly, to feel at home among common people,

       And to hold our own in terrible positions on land and sea.

      Not for an embroiderer,

       (There will always be plenty of embroiderers, I welcome them also,)

       But for the fibre of things and for inherent men and women.

      Not to chisel ornaments,

       But to chisel with free stroke the heads and limbs of plenteous

       supreme Gods, that the States may realize them walking and talking.

      Let me have my own way,

       Let others promulge the laws, I will make no account of the laws,

       Let others praise eminent men and hold up peace, I hold up agitation

       and conflict,

       I praise no eminent man, I rebuke to his face the one that was

       thought most worthy.

      (Who are you? and what are you secretly guilty of all your life?

       Will you turn aside all your life? will you grub and chatter all

       your life?

       And who are you, blabbing by rote, years, pages, languages, reminiscences,

       Unwitting to-day that you do not know how to speak properly a single word?)

      Let others finish specimens, I never finish specimens,

       I start them by exhaustless laws as Nature does, fresh and modern

       continually.

      I give nothing as duties,

       What others give as duties I give as living impulses,

       (Shall I give the heart’s action as a duty?)

      Let others dispose of questions, I dispose of nothing, I arouse

       unanswerable questions,

       Who are they I see and touch, and what about them?

       What about these likes of myself that draw me so close by tender

       directions and indirections?

      I call to the world to distrust the accounts of my friends, but

       listen to my enemies, as I myself do,

       I charge you forever reject those who would expound me, for I cannot

       expound myself,

       I charge that there be no theory or school founded out of me,

       I charge you to leave all free, as I have left all free.

      After me, vista!

       O I see


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